


Lucky Lady

by hellkitty



Category: The Expendables (Movies)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever write that story just because you want one character to say one line?  Yeah, this is one of those.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Lady

"Ready?" Barney Ross didn't ask questions unless he knew the answer. And the answer he wanted was 'yes'.  Which meant, as what Toll Road would probably call 'a law of the universe' or some shit he dredged out of the self-help books he was always reading, Gunnar Jensen said, 'no'.

"Just gotta pick up a few things," the tall blond said.  "I'll meet you there."

"It's on the way," Christmas pointed out.

Ross shot him a look; Christmas flung back a shrug that said he had no intention of letting the former tweaker slip and manage to get himself lost right before a mission.  

Ross didn't think he would: Jensen loved fighting. It was about the only thing that made it through to him anymore, the only thing that could even pretend to break the tedium of life in SoCal.  Sure, it looked pretty from the outside, but it was a tourist's town with a whore's heart, and all the tinsel and fakeness got real old, real fast.  Still, he'd learned to trust Lee's gut, better than he trusted his own sometimes.  "Yeah, wouldn't be a problem to take a little detour."

The look on Jensen's face was one Ross would have bronzed--if he'd ever wanted such an ugly mug around.  "I. Uh. Yeah. Sure.  I mean, sure."  

"Eloquent as always," Christmas said, hooking his jacket from around the back of the chair, rising. "That's why we keep you around."

"It ain't for his face," Ross said, slapping some bills on the table.  

"Yeah, that's what I'm for," Christmas tossed over his shoulder as he hit the door.  

“Thought it was for your sweet little ass,” Ross quipped. 

Christmas laughed, blowing a kiss.  

Jensen had no choice but to follow, shrugging into his own battered denim jacket.

 *

Ross made a habit of not knowing where his men lived. He had contact information, addresses, phone numbers, but he liked to keep it theoretical, numbers and words on a page, rather than actually see it. Way he figured it, his men had earned some privacy, and what they did and how they lived in their off time was none of his business.

Just like how he lived in his off time was none of theirs.

So he knew the address--a good thing, because the way Jensen steered his bike, well, a lesser man might think he was trying to lose them.  Jensen knew them better than that, and knew that he'd, at best, gain about six seconds before the others rumbled into the parking lot of one of those old-fashioned condominium places, the kind you only saw in old film noir, with a palm-tree courtyard and wrought iron railings.

And Jensen's decidedly unhappy frown. He was hiding something, sure enough. Christmas shot Ross a 'told you so' look.  Ross just grunted, following Jensen up the stairs, and down the open veranda to a door.

"You guys can wait out here," Jensen said, key in the lock, a last ditch, desperation movement, and all three of them knew it.  

"So you can dive out the back? Not hardly," Christmas said. He shouldered forward, pushing the door open. "Like to see how the other half's living."

The other half was living...surprisingly tidily, Ross thought, stepping over the threshold.  The place was small--a front room, efficiency kitchen, and a bedroom in the back, he guessed.  It looked like Gunnar was channeling some sort of Swedish Ikea aesthetic--it was all light colored wood and chrome, a sand-colored chenille throw even tossed over the off-white leather of the sofa.  Not what you'd expect from an addict. The glass-front cabinet with liquor bottles maybe was, and the stack of books on a coffee table, tilted and untidy, seemed to scream Jensen.  

"Nice place," Ross said. "You're a closet decorator."

Jensen was intent on the closet, digging around, moving in a rush. "Just some old stuff."

"Old my ass," Christmas said. "Probably still price tags on this.  You must be trying to impress some unlucky lady."

"Huh?" Jensen tossed the fringe of dirty blond hair from his eyes. "Nah. Just me."

Ross pulled a face at Christmas, who signed 'crazy'.  Trying to get a read on Jensen was about is easy as getting a grip on a greased pig.  

A sound from the back room, like a soft weight hitting the ground.

You don't take men with reflexes honed from decades of danger, and give them a sound like that, and have them not react: Ross's hand was on the small of his back, where he stowed his sidearm--Christmas's was already holding a knife.

Jensen looked white.  "Hey, I can get the rest of it later." He stood up, moving with too much speed and purpose for the door, stopping, shoulders twitching guiltily, at the next sound from the back room.

A meow.  

And then the source of the meow stepped into view, a plump white and orange cat, who stopped when she saw them, sticking out white front paws in a deep stretch, before meowing again.

"A cat," Ross said, unnecessarily. "You can stow the knife, Christmas. Just a cat."

"I can see it's a cat," Christmas said.  "What I can't see is what it's doing here."

"It's a fucking cat," Jensen said. "What? Can't a guy have a cat?"

"I don't know, can you?" Not Christmas's best line, but it was a testament to how surprised he actually was.  

"Look. She followed me home one day. From the liquor store."

"She. Cat's a lady cat, Christmas."

"So I hear.  The gentler sex. Putting up with him, no less."  

The gentler sex had paraded past them, tail up, to weave around Jensen's legs, who looked mortified and angry at the same time. Not a good combination for his Nordic features.  

"Does the cat have a name?" Ross asked.

Christmas knelt down, stretching out one hand, making some soft noise, trying to get her attention.

"That information's on a need to know basis," Jensen snapped, hotly.

"And I need to know."

Ross's sanity was starting to round up a sound protest to that assertion when Christmas stood up, arms full of cat, one hand toying with her collar, where a name tag hung next to a rabies tag.  "Princess Sparklepaws."  He looked up. "Are you shitting me? Am I dreaming?" He turned to ross. "Barney, am I dreaming or did I really just say 'Princess Sparklepaws'?"

"You really just said it. I heard you say it."  

"Yeah, and I may never recover," Christmas said. They both looked at Jensen for a long moment, broken only by the cat's purring squirm. Which matched, almost perfectly, Jensen's squirm. Minus the purring.

"That was her name when I got her!" he said, eventually. "You can't change someone's name on them when they've had it all their life."  

"Man's got a point," Ross said.

"Half a point," Christmas shot back.  "He loses half because I had to say Princess Sparklepants."

"Paws," Ross corrected. "Sparklepaws. Sparklepants sounds like a stripper name."

"True enough."

Jensen surged forward, that speed that no man that big should have, scooping the cat out of Christmas's grasp.  "We going to go? You done now?"  The purring grew louder, one white paw spreading and closing on his shoulder.  "You done insulting my damn cat?"

"I think you should apologize, Christmas, for insulting the lady's honor." It was all fun and games, but Jensen had a reputation for instability tending toward violence even bigger than he was, and fun and games in this crew could get pretty rough.

Christmas knew it, too, cutting some fancy bow Ross figured they must teach in England. "My sincerest apologies, your highness."  He’d apologize to the cat, sure. To Jensen? Never.

Jensen grunted. “Meet you outside,” he muttered, moving to the kitchenette, one huge hand almost enveloping the cat’s head as he scritched her ears.  “She’s gonna need tuna for this.”

Christmas gaped at him, but Ross was no help. “The lady needs tuna, Christmas.” He jerked his head toward the door. “We should give the lovely couple some privacy.”  

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Christmas muttered under his breath, ducking under Ross’s arm out the door.

“Just let the man have a moment with his cat,” Ross shook his head.  “Least she won’t cheat on him.”

Christmas’s look was daggers. “Low blow, my friend, low blow.”  

It was, Barney admitted. “Yeah, well, I’ll have to raincheck your can of tuna,” he laughed, moving quickly to duck the fist that swung at his face. 


End file.
